A Way Out
by Addicted Archangel
Summary: Hotch is tormented by memories of his childhood upon arriving to a crime scene, and it leads him to finally tell someone about the hell which he endured as a young boy. Contains child abuse. Rated for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: When writing "When Memories Intrude" I felt the need to continue on the concept. This is however a whole new story, so ignore the last one. It's similar, but this one has an ending, eventually. There will be one or two more chapters, so hold your breath :)**

-o-o-o-

Hotch rested his head on his fist as he read from the casefile. The pictures were more than gruesome. The young boy lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood made his mind run back. Too far back. He had to blink to get back to the BAU jet.

The casefiles and the slides JJ had presented in the conference room before their departure from Virginia had shown victim number three of a vicious murderer. Henry Eames, aged 12 had been brutally beaten to death in his own home while his mother and younger brother were locked in the upstairs bedroom.

The UnSub had forced himself into the house and placed a gun to the mother's head, throwing her and her sons into the bedroom, then yanked the oldest boy out before the mother could react. There was nothing she could do but listen to her son's desperate cries from downstairs.

She could do nothing but listen to her son being murdered.

Hotch sighed silently. _Why children?_, he thought.

-o-o-o-

When the BAU arrived, they were informed that there had been another murder. Ethan Marriet had been the fourth victim of the UnSub ravaging the suburbs of Austin, Texas. Hotch, Emily and Morgan had immediately gotten into the government issued SUV's and set their sights on the new, still fresh crime scene. Reid, JJ and Rossi had been left at the station to set up headquarters and start the victimology work.

The street had been strangely calm, with the exception being the multitude of police vehicles and crime scene-tape. Showing his credentials to the officer at the tape, he and his subordinates were let through and they set their course on the white wooden door.

What Hotch and his partial team encountered upon arrival to the crime scene was all too familiar to the superior. Hotch had tried to brace himself on the plane over to Texas, but not enough bracing in the world could have prepared him for what was waiting in the two storey red brick house.

Hotch drew a deep breath as he stepped in through the doorway. The instant his wingtips hit the burgundy carpeting, the sensation of recognicion hit him like a vicious punch in the chest.

He could just as well have stepped into his own childhood home.

The broken furniture, the empty bottles and beer cans scattered over the floor, the smashed dishes lying everywhere. The smell of alcohol in the air. The sound of a young boy crying in his mother's arms.

It nearly overtook him, and Hotch had to steady himself on the doorframe. _Good God_, he thought. This was too close to home.

-o-o-o-

Hotch left the dwelling, his legs shaking. Emily and Morgan were handling matters inside the house, talking to the mother and searching the crime scene.

Hotch felt a burning need to get some air before going back to the station where Reid, JJ and Rossi were waiting. He had to coordinate his sources. But in the state he was in right now, he felt nothing like the unit chief that he in fact was. The house, its residents and its interior mess had been too much.

There was little chance that he could keep his stoic exterior if he stayed in that home for much longer. The memories became too vivid, even for a hardened agent like himself. He needed air. He needed to clear his mind.

As Hotch reached the car, the feelings he had been fighting to surpress took the upper hand and he slumped to the ground, his back against the rear door. Thankfully, no one saw him as they had parked the SUV between a patrol car and a news van.

Hotch gasped for breath. So many memories. He held his head between his knees, to regain some blood flow. He felt faint.

So many memories...

-x-x-x-

"_Aaron!"_

_His father's voice coming from downstairs. Aaron scurried down the stairs, wearing only his pajamas. His father's voice was always stern and monotone. It was always best to hurry, otherwise he would be upset, and when he was upset, bad things happened._

_His father sat in the kitchen, holding Aaron's report card from school. He looked very angry. Aaron felt the air waft through the room. It smelled like liquor._ No_, Aaron thought. _Not tonight.

"_Aaron." His father stood up. "What the hell is this?" He dropped the report card on the table._

_Aaron felt his forehead began to sweat. He had brought home a D in biology. Knowing this was going to be 'one of those nights' Aaron steadied himself, and began thinking of something else. An island far away, where his father could never find him. He breathed. "It's my report card."_

"_There must be a misprint, because no son of mine would ever bring home a D in anything." His eyes shot fire straight across the floor. _

_These nights were the worst. Aaron usually managed to hide Sean away before his father burst out and go ballistic over some minor detail his oldest son had "screwed up.". But somehow, Sean was never the subject to his father's rage, and Aaron was very thankful for that. He'd rather take his father's entire arsenal of fury than have Sean feel one single slap of it._

_His mother never protected him. She locked herself away, either alone or with Sean as she felt a storm approach. He had resented his mother for years for never being there when he needed her, but at the same time, he was glad she managed to get Sean away when he wasn't able to._

_When Aaron got a little bit older, he realized that his mother had also been subjected to his father's rage. He didn't notice it at the time, but looking back, he saw the signs. Only then did he begin to understand her._

_But here he was. And once again, he drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "No. It's right. I didn't do so we..."_

_His father rushed towards him, and hit him over the face with an open palm. "You are a disgrace to this family! To __**me**__!" He began pacing before Aaron. "What the hell am I going to have to do to you to make you understand that failure is __**not an option**__ in this family!?"_

_He was a lawyer, Aaron's father, and very proud of himself; anyone could tell. He expected that both his boys would follow in his footsteps, and Aaron actually had no objections against becoming a lawyer when he grew up. He wanted to make a difference._

_Right now, however, Aaron was actually frightened. His father had never looked so furious as far as he could remember, and the boy slowly began moving away, ready to run for safety. But it was too late. His father came at him, and swung his fist high over his head. It hit Aaron straight in the face, leaving his nose to bleed violently. It was broken, not for the first time, and not for the last._

_Aaron fell to the floor, holding his face. Blood gushed though his fingers. His father came at him once more, this time kicking his son right in the stomach. He kicked Aaron over and over, altering between his chest, legs, stomach, back and head._

_Aaron crawled into a little heap of crumbled bones and limbs. His island began to disappear, and the pain was cruel. But no tears. Tears only excited his father more._

"_You are worthless!" his father roared between kicks. "You think you're something? You're nothing! You were born nothing, and you will die nothing!" He stopped kicking and looked at his son, disgust in his eyes. "Get some clothes on for God's sake. We're going to the emergency room." _

_Aaron's father always took him to the emergency room after a beating. That way he could yell at his son some more in front of some doctors, 'for being out making trouble'. That always freed him from any suspicion. After all, what abusive father took his son to the ER?_

_But Aaron didn't put on any clothes. He crawled to the phone, to call the police. His father was in the bathroom, washing off the blood and changing clothes. Aaron reached up to the phone and dialed the number. 9-1-1._

"_911, what's your emergency?"_

"_Help me... Please... My father... He's killing me..!"_

"_Hold on please." Pause. "What's your address?"_

"_It's 421 Sun..."_

_The phone was yanked from his hands from behind. His father stood over him, rage flowing through every vein of his body. He slammed the phone back onto his hook, and looked at his bleeding son. "Aaron."_

_Aaron crawled backwards in an attempt to get away. But it was useless. His father was already over him, pounding his fists all over Aaron's already bruised body. _

_Aaron's island was long gone and now there was nothing but angry white pain. Tears began flowing down his cheeks, as he cried out in agony. And it excited his father. The sight of tears in his son's eyes seemed to urge him on, to incite him._

_Holding Aaron's body down on the floor, he pounded his fists all over his oldest son's scrawny back, all the while screaming horrible words and profanities. _

_Aaron wanted to scream, but the pressure on his back was too great. He__ tried to shield his head from the blows, and struggled the best he could to get away. But it was useless._

_The pain as his father's fist impacted with his temple ripped through him like a red hot poker. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood. He wanted to scream, to get the man off him; to get away. Stars swam across his eyes as he silently begged to be rendered unconscious. His prayers, however, were not answered._

One day!_ he thought while the burning pain split his head in half. _One day I'll be stronger than you! You'll never touch me again!

_It wasn't the first time, and surely, it wasn't the last._

_He was 13 years old._

_-x-x-x-_

Hotch vomited on the sidewalk, as he sat on the asphalt, leaning against his car. There were too many memories circling his head right now, too many visions of his father's violence and his mother's fear.

Shaking his head and wiping his mouth, he drew a few breaths before standing up, still holding the car door in a firm grip. Hotch knew he had to shake this off, and that he had to shake it off _right now_. This wasn't appropriate behavior for a senior agent, and especially not for a unit chief.

Silently scolding himself for his momentary weakness, he was fully aware that his focus needed to be on the case – nothing else.

Getting into the car, Hotch sighed deeply and slanted over the steering wheel. Moaning, he dried the tears from his face, and looked at himself in the rear view mirror.

"Goddamnit, Aaron."

The mirror before him showed him the image of a man. A grown man. A successful man. A man who had a job, money, a house and a son of his own. A successful man. He saw a man who managed to get though life, despite a D in biology.

Hotch looked at the house, not seeing that house, but his own where he lived as a child. He closed his eyes and took a breath before finally starting the car and driving off towards the station and the rest of his team.

**A/N 2: Hey, hang on for the next chapter! It's gonna be great! Oh, and this was edited by the lovely editor frog!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hopefully this holds up after the last chap. There will be at least one more to round it up. Edited by editor frog!**

**-o-o-o-**

Hotch arrived at the Austin police station where Reid, JJ and Rossi had set up headquarters in one of the conference rooms. The youngest of the agents had just finished mapping out the victims on a large city map and was trying to establish a comfort zone.

JJ was talking to the policemen in another conference room and began her work on setting up a press conference.

Rossi was hard at work with the victimology. It seemed so far that the only things the children had in common was a little league team they were all a part of. It wasn't much, but it was a start. They could work from that.

Hotch looked at the pictures of the victims pinned to the board in front of him. They were young boys, age ranging from 11 to 13. All had been brutally beaten to death. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sighed.

Too close to home.

-o-o-o-

"The boys were all part of this team. Is there anything else that ties them together?" Hotch walked along side the coach of the local little league team. Along with Morgan, he had gone to interview some of the parents of children on the team who were still alive, and the coach of the team. So far the interviews had given them little information.

"Nah, not that I know of. They weren't even friends, really. Their parents didn't socialize with each other, neither did the kids outside the ball park." The coach's voice was low and showed signs of despair. Four boys from his team had been murdered, and the thought of being able to do nothing about it seemed to get to him. "I really wish I could help you more, agents."

"That's all right, Mr. Pratt. If anything comes to mind you can contact us at any time. Any little detail, no matter how unimportant it may seem." Hotch handed coach Pratt a card with his cell phone number before they left the ball park to return to the station.

Hotch rubbed his temples as they walked though the uncut grass towards the government-issue SUV. He couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity of this case. The beaten children. The mother locked in the room upstairs. The interior of the house he had visited earlier that day. And now the little league. It was like someone was throwing his own miserable childhood straight into his face.

"Hey, Hotch man – are you okay?" Morgan frowned as he saw the distraught look on his superior's face. He had never seen his boss this detached from his job before, and it worried him. If Hotch wasn't 100 percent on a case, something was seriously wrong.

Hotch nodded dejectedly. "I'm fine." He knew it wouldn't be the end of this conversation, and had already anticipated the next comment from Morgan.

"Yeah, you're fine. And I'm up for an Academy Award. Come on, Hotch, what's wrong? Talk to me."

"It's nothing."

"Hotch. I saw you at the latest crime scene. You could hardly keep from throwing up. Something's not right."

"I said it's nothing." Getting annoyed with his subordinate now, Hotch snapped at him, pointing out that the conversation was over.

But Morgan had never been one to let problems drop to the ground that easily. He hurried to the car, taking the driver's seat, forcing Hotch to ride shotgun. This conversation was far from over, according to him.

As they drove off, the older agent leaned on the window, letting his eyes land on whatever small street and mini-mart they passed.

Morgan sat silent for a while before once again speaking up. "Who was it?"

Hotch flinched slightly. "What?"

"Who beat you as a kid?"

Hotch turned to his subordinate, a questioning look in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Morgan turned briefly to his superior, catching his eyes for a moment. "Hotch, I'm a profiler. And I was abused as a kid too. I can tell when someone is getting hit with memories from their childhood."

The older agent sat silently, now staring out the windshield. A few moments passed by without any of them talking. Hotch closed his eyes momentarily, then looked up, still facing the windshield.

"My father."

Morgan turned once again to his superior, but this time he couldn't meet his eyes. They were fixed on some spot in the distance. The younger agent said nothing at this, but waited, knowing more would follow.

"I never knew..." Hotch began, and sighed deeply. "I never knew what I should expect when I came home from school. If he was going to be drunk or sober. If I would be greeted by a hug or a punch in the face."

He closed his eyes, refusing to let the tears burning behind his eyelids break free. Another deep breath and he continued.

"It could be anything, just any little thing. A jacket I hadn't picked up off the floor. Spilled milk. A bad..." He paused. "A bad report card."

Silence. Morgan waited for Hotch to speak.

"He always... He always took me to the emergency room afterwards. To make sure no one suspected him. He always yelled at me in plain sight at the hospital for being out and making trouble. After a while everyone there thought I was the worst kid in town."

Morgan waited, keeping his eyes on the traffic. It still wasn't his time to talk.

"Half the times he came at me I had no idea what I had done. I was just there to take the punch when something wasn't to his liking."

"What about your mother?" Morgan finally felt it was appropriate to interject something. "Did she know?"

"She knew." Hotch looked out the side window, no longer being able to contain his tears. He didn't want Morgan to see him cry. "But there really wasn't much she could do. She took Sean and locked herself in the upstairs bedroom when all hell broke loose downstairs."

Morgan's mind shot back to the crime scene. Mother and younger brother locked in the bedroom, older brother beaten to death in the livingroom. No wonder his superior had reacted the way he had.

Hotch pushed the tears out of his eyes with the heel of his hand, but kept his gaze on the passing surrounding as they pulled up to the station.

"Morgan."

"Yes, Hotch."

"I trust you understand I told you this in confidence."

"Of course I do. Are you sure you can handle this?"

"Yes." Hotch was determined to find out who was murdering these boys, and some depressing memory from his all too twisted childhood was not about to stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here we go, the Hotch-angst continues! There will be at least one more chapter, so hang tight! beta read by editor frog!**

Despite the fact that Hotch was struggling to hide his issues with this particular case, it became painfully apparent to him that the rest of the BAU were not willing to be kept in the dark.

Morgan, the only one who actually knew why his superior was acting the way he was, basically left him alone. An occasional firm hand on Hotch's shoulder let him know that his subordinate was there for him, should he at any moment need it. Accompanied with a slight nod and a non-patronizing half smile, the slight squeeze indeed soothed the superior in his brawl against his emotions and memories.

Emily played the mother hen, as always. She tried to get Hotch talking on a number of occasions, but there was no way he was going to reveal his buried feelings with anyone else. One was already too many. Despite her superior's reluctance to communicate, Emily kept staying close to him when she could; making sure his coffee mug never ran dry.

Reid had occasionally asked Morgan what was wrong with Hotch, but the only answer he had gotten was that he was better off not to get in to it; that Hotch could take care of it himself. Reid wasn't so sure about his superior being able to handle whatever obstacle he was facing, as he had never seen Hotch quite like this before. His minimal social skills were however enough to make him stay out of the obstructed superior's way, at least for the moment.

JJ was too busy with press and briefings to actually make out any changes in Hotch's behavior. The few moments she saw him he was mostly his usual stoic self. He could handle the briefings and the teamwork, it was when Hotch was left alone, or not standing in front of his team, his mind drifted.

Out of all the agents in the BAU, Rossi was the one who firmly closed the door behind him as he walked into the makeshift headquarters in the Austin police station where Hotch was currently alone, flipping papers over without actually reading them.

Rossi walked up to the desk, placing both palms flat on the wood. Leaning over, he caught the eyes of a somewhat confused unit chief.

"Yes?" Hotch frowned, looking at his subordinate.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going through the files." Stacking papers on the table as a hand on his wrist halted his movement.

"No, I mean – _what are you doing_?" He put emphasis on every word. A long silent look was exchanged between the two men as no answer was given. "You walk around here for two days like the living dead, drifting off into your own little world every now and then, and falling asleep over the table. Should I be worried, Hotch?"

There was a small knot in Hotch's stomach. He had no idea he had been so obvious in his absent-mindedness, but suddenly it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been so preoccupied with his own ghastly memories and flashbacks that he hadn't noticed his own behavior.

Had one of his subordinates acted the way he had been during the last days, Hotch would have been breathing down their necks by now, lecturing about the absolute requirement of staying 100 percent alert and on the case. All the odd looks he had been given by policemen and his teammates now made sense.

"There's nothing wrong with me, Dave." Not even Hotch himself believed the words coming out of his mouth as he lied through his teeth too keep his subordinate off his back.

And neither did Rossi. "You can drop that 'stoic hero'-crap with me, Hotch. You were the one lecturing me about how there's no 'I' in 'team' on the very first case we worked together. This is one of those times where you need to listen to your own words."

A short moment of silence. The fixed stare Rossi was giving him was finally enough, and Hotch let his eyes drop to the table.

Rossi knew he had hit the spot.

"Tell me, Hotch." He slid a chair up to the desk, sitting down opposite his superior, never letting his eyes leave him, even though they were no longer making eye contact.

Hotch slowly shook his head as he opened his mouth a fraction of an inch. "I'm having...difficulties."

"Just tell me, Hotch. What is it? What are you taking?" Rossi knew the only way to get Hotch talking about what was really bothering him was to get him thinking that the team was considering much worse things.

Hotch flinched. "What?!"

"Diazepam? Lorazepam? Analgesics? Just tell me and we'll work it out."

"I'm not taking drugs, Rossi!" Suddenly, infuriated, Hotch shot up from his chair, taking a few rushed steps over to the window. His mind was racing.

_Is that what they think? That I'm doing drugs? Jesus..._

"I'm not doing drugs", he repeated. Placing his hands on his hips, he sighed.

"Then what is it? What's going on?" Rossi gesticulated with his hands as he raised his voice slightly, letting his Italian heritage surface as he tried to drag the truth out of his superior.

"I've just been a bit out of it, that's all. It's nothing." He refused to look Rossi in the eyes, knowing they would be a dead giveaway.

"Don't give me that shit, Hotch! Don't you get that we are worried about you right now – _I'm _worried about you right now!"

"There's no need to."

"Hotch, for God's sake." Rossi put his hand on his superior's shoulder, spinning him towards him. "If you can't give me a reason as to why you're _not_ about to have a nervous breakdown right now, I don't know what I can do. Please, Aaron. Just tell me, what the hell is going on?"

As he heard his subordinate call him by his first name, Hotch surrendered. Realizing he wasn't getting out of this by lying, he reluctantly decided to tell Rossi the truth.

"It's the case."

"The case?"

"It...reminds me of something."

"What?"

"My childhood."

Rossi didn't follow up with another question after the last answer. He knew enough now. He knew why his superior had been distracted and absent-minded, and why he had been acting in these odd manners during their time in Austin. At this moment, Rossi didn't know what to say to his superior.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of. "If there's anything you need..."

"Thank you." Hotch felt a strange mix between relief and irritation over having to tell both Rossi and Morgan about the secret he had successfully been able to keep for more than 20 years. "I'll be fine. Just as soon as we catch this UnSub."

Rossi clapped Hotch's shoulder, the look in his eyes saying 'I'm there for you'. It was the male ritual of sharing emotions. Without saying another word, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

To Hotch's relief he was alone in the conference room. With a deep sigh, he sat down by the desk. Looking at the pictures in the case files, his head sank deeper and deeper, and eventually his forehead made contact with the wood below. Hotch had once again fallen asleep over the files.

-o-o-o-

_It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky, birds were singing and kids were playing in the streets of the calm suburb Aaron called home._

_Riding his bicycle down the street where he lived, Aaron had just finished school and was on his way home. Like every day he shuddered at the thought of what might await him once he stepped through the door. He thought that today might be different. It was a lovely day outside, maybe his father was in a good mood._

_He had to hold on to what little hope he had as he coursed up the driveway leading to the white, automatic garage door. Leaning his bike against the garage, he locked it and started to walk down the path leading up to the front porch and the heavy white wooden door._

_As Aaron opened the front door, the house was completely silent. Looking around, he saw no bottles on the floor and no broken dishes. It made him relax, but only slightly. This only meant that his father wasn't drunk. He could still be in a bad mood._

_Leaving his jacket in the hallway, Aaron held his backpack in one hand and turned on the lights in the living room. There was no one to be seen or heard._

Maybe they went to the store_, Aaron thought and set his backpack down by the staircase. Hungry as he was, he walked into the kitchen to make a sandwich._

_He didn't have a moment to react as the fist hit him in the back of the head, sending him reeling over the floor. Landing roughly on the marble tiling he was instantly greeted by a hard kick to the stomach._

_In the corner of his eye, he saw his mother move away from the kitchen. Aaron could see her face as she hurried out of the room. She didn't even look at him._

_He heard Sean cry somewhere in the house, somewhere close by._

_Aaron raised himself on his elbows and tried to crawl away from his father's fists and feet, but the weight which was suddenly launched on top of him made it impossible to escape._

"_Sean!" He screamed from under the abusive fist hailing over him. "Sean, run! Go hide!"_

_He heard skittering of feet running past them as the crying became more and more distant, before it disappeared. Aaron heard the slamming of the upstairs bedroom door as his mother closed it behind her, locking it tight. This was apparently one of those days when she just hid away on her own, ignoring both her sons._

_Sean was safe, that was the most important thing._

_A fist landed in Aaron's face, nearly knocking him out. Tasting the blood in his mouth, the young boy lay sprawled on the floor as his father got off him. He couldn't see his father, but he could feel him, standing over him._

_He could hear the coarse breaths as his father bent down, grabbing his lanky arm, pulling him to his feet._

"_Stand up, boy!"_

_Aaron wobbled as he stood in front of his father, ribs hurting and bleeding from various orifices of the face._

"_Dad, please..."_

"_Shut up!"_

"_What did I...?"_

_It landed him a slap over the already bruised beyond recognition face._

"_I told you to shut up! What do I have to do to make you listen?!"_

_A dark look had come over his father as he glared at his 13-year old son. Then suddenly, the dark look was replaced by one of pure malice._

"_I know."_

_Dragging his son over to the stove, he turned on the gas with a whoomping sound._

_Aaron panicked when he realized what his father was about to do. "No, dad, no!!" He tried to tear away from the older, stronger man, but the grip he had on his son's arm was too firm to be broken._

_Lighting the gas with a match, a blue flame shot up from under the burner, flickering brightly over the black iron surface._

_Aaron screamed and pleaded, trying to tear away, but to no avail. His father pulled his arm closer and closer to the hot stove. Aaron could feel the heat increasing as his thin arm approached the flame._

"_Dad, please, stop! Please!!"_

_He banged his thin fist against his father's sturdy frame, not even getting as much as a jerk of pain in return. He kicked and squirmed trying to release himself from the iron clasp around his wrist._

_The pain was indescribable as Aaron's father pressed the thin arm straight down on the blue flame. There was a sizzling sound as the smell of burnt hair and searing flesh filled the kitchen._

_One single heart wrenching scream echoed through the otherwise silent walls of the two storey town house before it suddenly stopped. Aaron had only felt the gruesome pain for a moment before fainting. Seeing his flesh bubbling over the blue flame was too much, and the blissful unconsciousness came swiftly as he slumped down onto the floor below his father._

_His father let go of him and dropped the limp and severed arm to land over his son's lanky form._

_Walking out of the kitchen, he stood by the stairway, holding the railing._

"_Joan! I'm going to the emergency room."_

_Aaron's father walked out into the kitchen and looked at his unconscious son._

"_Weakling."_

_-o-o-o-_

Hotch woke with a start. He had drifted off again, fallen asleep over the table in the makeshift headquarters. Shaking his head, the superior rose from his seat and picked up the case file he had been sleeping on. Correcting his tie and running a hand though his unwashed hair, he walked out the door and into the police station.

He tried to push away the very vivid memories from his mind, but right now, it was harder than ever. Rubbing his arm slightly, he remembered the pain from the flame searing his flesh. Not since that day when he was 13 years old had he ever worn a short sleeved shirt.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Final chapter of this story, I hope you like it! Beta read by editor frog!**

-o-o-o-

Sitting on the jet on the way back to Quantico, Hotch leaned back against the seat looking at his team around him. He was proud of every single one of them.

Reid was the one who cracked the case. Finally figuring out the common denominator between each of the victims, it took him only a few moments to identify the UnSub. As he did, he called Hotch instantly.

Hotch, Morgan and Prentiss had sped off to the little league field where baseball practice was on, and the coach stood with a few of the boys, scolding them heavily.

It took Morgan no more than a few seconds to get Coach Pratt down on the ground and placing him in cuffs. The man fought and screamed, yelled profanities and threatened to press charges for excessive force, but the threats fell on deaf ears. He was hauled off to a police vehicle and read his rights.

When confronted with the very incriminating evidence at the station, he broke down crying under the interrogation performed by Rossi and Prentiss and confessed to the murders. His reason? The boys were pulling down the score average of the team, but their parents refused to let Coach Pratt put them on the bench.

Such a small detail as the team's average had made the coach snap. A few months earlier his wife had left him, taking his three sons with her. The divorce had gotten more than ugly and he ended up getting practically nothing, not even visitor's rights. Reid was the one who picked up on this stressor, and suddenly everything fell into place.

Now Hotch sat in the seat of the BAU-jet and watched his subordinates. Reid was sleeping in the small sofa, curled up into a little ball. Every now and then his foot jerked, reminding Hotch of a dog chasing something in a dream. The image put a small smile on his lips.

JJ was resting her head on her hand as she half slept, half read a newspaper from the day before. Her head began tilting more and more, and eventually, she had slumped over the table and fallen asleep.

Prentiss snored. Leaning her head back against the seat she slept with her mouth open, and very non-feminine sounds were emerging from her throat and nose.

Morgan was listening to music on his iPod. Hotch could see his head moving rhythmically as he looked out the window into the darkness, slightly tapping his finger against the small green device in his hand. It was his way of unwinding instead of going to sleep.

Turning his head forward after casting a glance at Morgan, Hotch met with the eyes of Rossi, who sat opposite him.

"You okay?"

Hotch nodded. "Yes."

Rossi nodded in agreement, and then rose to get a cup of coffee and maybe a newspaper. There were fresh papers ones over by the coffee machine, and he sat down in a chair opposite Reid, giving his thoughtful teammate some space. Reading the paper, he sipped his coffee and hoped he did the right thing by leaving Hotch alone.

Hotch closed his eyes and his mind drifted slightly. He saw his father's funeral. He had been 15 when his father died of lung cancer. No matter how hard he tried, the man couldn't remember shedding a single tear at the funeral. All he felt was relief and serenity.

He was jerked from his drift by a voice from across the table. "Hotch?"

Looking up, the superior spotted Morgan, who had removed his earplugs and moved to sit opposite him. Leaning across the table, the younger agent folded his hands in front of him.

"Are you good?"

"I am. Thank you."

"Look, man, if you ever need to talk to someone..."

"Thanks, Morgan. I'll have that in mind."

There was a moment of silence before Morgan spoke again, this time in a hushed voice to not raise any attention from the rest of the team, despite the fact that they were sleeping. "I didn't tell anyone about what happened to me when I was a kid until two years ago. I know what it's like to have everything bottled up inside. It's not a good thing, Hotch."

"I know."

"What I wanna say is...anytime."

Hotch sat silent looking at his subordinate. "Thanks."

Morgan nodded and reached for his earplugs once again. Before he could plug them in, he heard Hotch address him in a low voice.

"I didn't think it'd ever end."

Placing the iPod back in his lap, Morgan leaned forward once again. "You don't. It feels like it's never gonna stop, but eventually it does."

"It did."

"Somehow you find a way out, you always do. We fight our way through, and we grow stronger."

Hotch nodded.

"My way out was an athletic scholarship. It got me far enough away to start dealing with everything and get over it."

"I had a way out too."

"College?"

"No."

"Moved out?"

"No."

Morgan frowned. "Then what?"

Hotch looked out the window for a moment, and then closed his eyes. Moments later, he was fast asleep.

-x-x-x-

_Aaron could hear the screams as he threw the bike down on the gravel path leading up to the porch. The howls of pain were terrifying and didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. Rushing in through the front door, the first thing he saw was empty beer cans on the floor._

_The screams came from the living room. Bolting inside, Aaron saw his father holding Sean by the arm, twisting it up onto his scrawny back._

"_Shut up!! Shut up, you little freak!! Do you hear me!!" His father was yelling at the six year old little boy who cried out in pure fear and pain._

_Aaron stood as if frozen for a moment, then his sight shifted to the staircase. His mother lay sprawled over the steps, face covered in blood. She wasn't moving. Another shrill howl awoke the young boy from his catatonic state._

"_Daddy! Daddy, don't! It hurts!!" Sean yelled through his tears, and at this Aaron was finally able to move again. Bolting up the stairs, he stepped over his motionless mother, feeling the alcohol fumes rising from her flaccid body._

_Storming into his parents' bedroom, he tore out a drawer in the nightstand where he knew his father kept his gun, loaded and ready for any intruder dumb enough to enter the house. Ripping the gun from its holster, Aaron ran down the stairs, leaping over his unconscious mother and dashed into the living room._

"_Dad, stop it! Let him go!" Pointing the gun at his father, he yelled as loud as he could to be heard over his brother's desperate pleas._

_His father spun around, still holding Sean by the arm. Grinning at his older son, he let out a mocking cackle._

"_What, you're gonna shoot me? There is no way in hell you have the guts to pull that trigger, you little freak!"  
_

_Aaron clenched his hands around the butt of the gun, finger trembling on the metal trigger. "I said let him go."_

"_Look, kid; put that thing away before you hurt yourself! You don't wanna end up in the emergency room again, do you?" The threat in his father's voice was painfully obvious, and Aaron knew that this was probably the last thing he'd ever do, __should his father ever get his hands on him._

"_Let him go, I swear to God..."_

"_Don't you take the Lord's name in vain in my house!"_

"_Oh, but abusing your kids is okay!?" Aaron shouted at his father, who still held a firm grip on the now sobbing Sean's arm._

"_Don't give me lip, boy! Now put that gun down and get over here!"_

"_No."_

"_What do you mean, 'no'?!"_

"_You don't touch Sean! Do whatever the hell you want to me, but you don't lay _one_ finger on Sean!" Pulling back the clasp on the gun, he aimed it securely at his father. "Let him go. Dad, please let him go."_

"_Fuck you! Fuck you and your little freak brother!" _

"_Dad..."_

"_You're dead, Aaron."_

_Aaron saw his father begin to advance on him, letting Sean go in the process. Not even flinching, he pulled the trigger._

_The recoil was more painful that he'd expected and he was thrown back a few steps, but quickly regained his stance, aiming the gun at his father, who had fallen back on the floor._

_Sean came running at Aaron, grabbing his waist and hiding behind his legs as the two brothers approached their bleeding father who lay sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace. Gun still aimed straight at his father, Aaron prodded him with his foot._

_His father looked up at his sons, shock in his eyes. Never in a million years had he believed his oldest son was capable of something like this._

"_You don't touch Sean. Ever. And from now on, you don't touch me either; because if you do, so help me God – I will kill you." Backing away from his father, Aaron took Sean by the hand, walked into the hallway and set him down on a chair next to a dresser._

_Placing the gun on top of the dresser, Aaron took the phone off the hook and dialed._

"_Yes, hello. I'd like an ambulance to 421 Sundborn Lane as quickly as possible, please. I've just shot my father. Yes, I'll hold."_

_Holding the phone in one hand, he took Sean under his other arm. The little boy had stopped crying and now sat silent holding his older brother's waist._

"_It's okay, Sean. No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."_

-x-x-x-

Aaron's father had survived being shot, having been hit in the shoulder. His oldest son had been completely acquitted from the shooting, on the count of it being in self defense. The marks on Aaron's body he had presented led the judge to the conclusion that he was telling the truth. His father, however, was never charged with the battery of his two boys.

They never talked about it after it had happened; none of the members of the family did. The police had kept the lid on the whole story and stopped it from leaking to the media.

Aaron and Sean had been taken by child protective services while their father was in intensive care, leaving their mother bruised, battered and drunk senseless in the waiting room for someone to tend to her. Aaron hadn't cared at all. All he had done was to hold his brother's hand and made sure they weren't separated. Determined to keep his promise to his younger brother, he had held on to him tighter than grim death until the child protective services finally agreed not to divide the boys.

The boys had briefly been put in foster care, but as their father passed away in lung cancer the following year they had been sent back to their mother. Getting his mother into rehab for her alcoholism, Aaron finally had been able to make her see everything that had been going on during the years. Despite her desperate actions to make amends, Hotch could never forgive her for what she had let happen over the course of his childhood. Sean had blocked a lot out from his younger years, and Hotch was always thankful for that. He didn't need to remember everything.

Aaron only lived there for three more years before leaving for college, but always made sure Sean was well cared for. He was a man of his words

And now Aaron Hotchner sat on the plane back to Quantico. He was a successful man with a good job, wonderful colleagues, a beautiful son and a sane mind. Everything he had always wanted and hoped for; and fought hard to attain.

All this despite his father and his abuse, despite all the pain and humiliation – and a D in biology - he had found a way out.

-o-o-o-

**A/N 2: That's it! Hope you enjoyed my very first Aaron-centric story! Love you all for reading and sticking with me! Thanks!**


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